


A Sheep to Slaughter

by adobe_beforeffects



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Canon-Typical Body Horror, Character Study, Gen, One Shot, both pre and post ink machine, canon character death (not that anyone actually stays dead), don't walk into this expecting fluff, there is no fluff only death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 03:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15810264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adobe_beforeffects/pseuds/adobe_beforeffects
Summary: Their lord doesn’t create things for no reason. Jack was created as a gift for their use - to keep himself and everyone else stable.At least, that’s what Sammy keeps telling himself.





	A Sheep to Slaughter

He had heard rumors that Sammy preached sermons to the Searchers, that he would visit them without fear while they clawed at him and tried to drag him back into the puddles, that he wasn’t afraid to touch them.

He just didn’t think those rumors were _true._

‘I-I don’t think you should-” the Lost One stutters, slowly backing up against one of the walls. Ink drips off of him rhythmically, but he almost doesn’t notice thanks to the scene before him.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. This sheep is quite tame, I assure you,” Sammy reassures. There’s some truth to his words. The inky mass is hunched over on itself, not moving, let alone trying to attack the music director. It doesn’t quite look like any other Searcher he’s seen - the thing is absolutely massive, swollen and bloated to the point where it bares little resemblance to the other Searchers roaming the halls. A single bowler hat sits on top of its deformed body, looking completely out of place on the creature.

The Lost One stares, trying to remember.

“Did he... it... used to work here?” he ventures.

“Once.” Sammy doesn’t say anything else, and he doesn’t press the issue.

The masked figure rummages around in his pocket, producing a large syringe. He holds it between his hands, clasps them in a short prayer to their lord, then strikes the Searcher with it.

The creature lets out a horrific noise and the other figure stumbles back into the wall, splattering ink onto it. That wasn’t the same sound as the constant moans Searchers usually produced - that was a very loud _scream._ A very _human_ scream.

“I- I think it’s in pain,” he stutters. Sammy doesn’t look up from the syringe, which is very slowly filling with thick, molasses-like ink.

“I’m sure he is,” he states simply. The other figure isn’t sure how to respond to that.

Sammy pulls out the syringe with a sickening squelching sound and the Searcher lets out another pitiful noise before collapsing completely, leaving only its hat floating on the surface of the ink. The other man turns away, feeling sick.

“Hold still.”

The Lost One gasps in shock as something suddenly pierces his arm. It doesn’t puncture his flesh the way it would if he were still human, but rather sinks deep into the ink making up his body. He shudders involuntarily as the ice-cold ink mixes in with his own and his body starts to reform itself, becoming more and more solid. Slowly the dripping stops, and Sammy removes the needle in a sudden jerking movement. “That was all. We can return back now... I’m sure the others are waiting.”

Slowly he looks over the prophet’s form - solid, almost human-like, far more defined than any of their own - and a horrifying thought clicks in his head.

“How- how many times have you done this before?”

“Oh, dozens. Dozens and dozens.”

The other man slowly looks back at the hat, still floating on the surface of the ink. Sammy moves closer to him, as if reading his mind.

“Nothing in this place exists for no reason, you know.” His voice floats over the ink, as smooth as it was when he was human. “Our lord puts things here for our use, in return for our belief in his divinity. To not take advantage of these things would be directly insulting his gifts - a grievous sin indeed. Do you understand?”

The Lost One nods, though he’s not entirely sure he does.

“Very good.” Sammy turns, looking at him over his shoulder. “It’s time to go home, my sheep. Follow me.” He begins walking back through the sewer, but the Lost One hangs back for a second, staring at the hat.

“Thank you.”

There is no response.

 

* * *

 

“You’re sick again?”

The other man sniffs, tucking a handkerchief back into his pocket. “I’m sick more often than not these days. I think it’s the hay fever.”

“I think it’s staying in this filthy place all day,” Sammy mutters, looking disdainfully at the muck surrounding the edges of the sewer. “I don’t know how you can stand it.”

“It’s not that bad,” Jack points out, his voice even more nasally than usual. “Being sick all the time means I can’t smell anything anyway. And look.” He pulls a sheet of paper from the stack on his desk and hands it to Sammy, grinning. “I sat on this for a week without making a bit of progress. Down here I got it done in less than three hours.”

Sammy hums the tune to himself as he reads Jack’s carefully-penned lettering. It’s good, he’ll admit. “Joey will probably complain about something or other, but I bet Susie will love it. She’s really excited about this Alice character.”

“You think you’ll get the rest of the soundtrack for her episode done before the deadline?” Jack leans back in his chair, the wood creaking slightly under his weight.

“Does it even matter? The animations have been late these last few weeks anyway. And it’s not exactly like I can think with that damn switch in my office.”

“You can always move down here with me,” the other man teases. “We’ll set up a desk right in the middle of the sewage line.”

Sammy pushes him, but he can’t help but smile at the suggestion. “I’m sure something will come to me.” A pause. “Maybe not music... but something.”

 

* * *

 

He stops, listening.

Sammy used to hear him constantly. When he was human, he would press his ear against the barricaded door to the sewers and listen to the sounds coming from inside. They were human, at first, gut-wrenching screams and cries for help. But gradually, as more sacrifices were made and more souls joined him, the cries stopped being distinct, and soon the Searcher was making the same moans they all did.

But now the sewers are eerily silent. In a strange way he would almost prefer the screams.

He walks slowly along the edge of the pipeline, axe lowered at his side. The silence only serves to put hm more on edge, and he tightens his grip on the handle. Ink is dripping from somewhere rhythmically, the only thing breaking the still atmosphere.

Something grabs his leg.

The Searcher lets out a raspy moan, digging his hands into the music director’s calf, then his back. Sammy gasps as the sensation of freezing cold ink seeps into his chest, nearly collapsing from shock. Jack pulls himself up slowly, using Sammy’s body as leverage, their ink merging together as he reaches for his heart.

Sammy stumbles and falls backwards, and they’re both knocked into the inky abyss below.

His form instantly dissipates within the rest of the ink, numbness overtaking him. He writhes around in the darkness, trying to remain calm and regain his bearings. One way _must_ be up, it has to be - and yet there’s nothing around him but the inky darkness.

Within seconds he’s quickly overcome by a horrendous buzzing noise. It’s loud, _too_ loud, and he can feel his own mind fragmenting as other thoughts take over. He can’t think, it hurts, _it hurts, someone help me, did I do something wrong, can anyone hear- has anyone seen- this is my fault- why is this happening- I’ve been in here so long-_

And worst of all, he can hear bits of Jack’s screams in there, even louder than his own.

Clarity suddenly washes over him, and he grasps the opportunity to focus his thoughts. He can make out a faint light now above him, and he struggles to reach up towards it, working his way past the freezing numbness as the screams fade away. And suddenly he’s dragging himself upwards and out of the flooded ink, collapsing in a heap on the concrete.

Sammy shudders and gasps, his body still refining itself back into a human shape. Slowly he pushes himself off the ground, ink dripping off of him in long, thick strands. His monochrome vision slowly comes into focus, and as it does  he can see his axe lying a few feet away. He extends the blob that’s slowly refining into his arm towards it, willing his fingers to form the rest of the way.

He hears a moan.

An arm-like shape emerges from the ink below, reaching straight for him. Something that looks vaguely like a head follows, and then a torso. A bowler hat sits on top of the shapeless mass, somehow still perfectly clean despite having just been submerged in ink.

Sammy finally grasps the axe in his newly formed hand. The Searcher reaches for him.

He twists around and strikes, _hard._

The axe sinks deep into what was once Jack’s head, sending more ink splattering over the concrete. The other figure shudders and collapses in on itself, and Sammy collapses too. He rests on the ledge, thanking his lord for sparing him.

That had been the first time. And then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

It took years and years, but slowly he got the Searcher to understand. Every time he went down to the sewers, he brought the axe with him, and every time the creature attacked him he struck him with it. Gradually Jack grew larger, slower, absorbing the ink that was around him.. No longer was the axe used to keep him at bay; now it was used to keep him from fleeing when Sammy approached.

And slowly, Sammy figured out what his old friend could be used for.

And with that realization, he finally understood why his lord had rejected this sheep.

 

* * *

 

“Where is it?”

The band members shift uneasily in the hallway.

“Where is... what?” one of them ventured.

“The violin. Have you seen it?”

Everyone looks to their coworkers, silence filling the room. Finally, one of the woodwind players speaks up. “Jack ran off with it. Said you could come down and get it from him if you wanted it so badly.”

Sammy digs his nails into his hand. Why didn’t anyone understand that the Gods were not patient beings? “I guess I’ll just have to pay our little sheep a visit. Recording’s cancelled.” He takes off towards the infirmary. Behind him, he can hear the sound of everyone dispersing, apparently considering that to be the end of their shifts. It was just as well. He didn’t need anyone else in his way right now.

He’s only slightly winded by the time he gets to the sewers. Jack is sitting at his desk like usual, eyes closed, humming the latest song Sammy had provided him. The violin sits at the corner of his desk tauntingly, conveniently far away from the lyricist.

Sammy makes a grab for the instrument, only to have it suddenly yanked out under his hand. Jack leans back in his chair, holding the violin behind him. He tosses it to his other hand as Sammy comes closer, blocking him.

“Give me that.” He’s trying to speak calmly, but the rage in his voice is almost palpable.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on. I mean, what are you _doing?_ We haven’t completed any songs in weeks, you keep disappearing for hours on end - and don’t think I haven’t noticed how you haven’t been going home at night either.” Sammy makes another swipe for the violin, and Jack stands up, backing away a few feet. “Listen, if you’re sick we can get you help, but you have to tell us-”

Sammy laughs a bit at the statement. How _ridiculous,_ to claim he’d lost his grip on his sanity. "If only you could understand, my friend. Things make so much more sense now, more than they ever did before.” If only he could explain it to him.

Perhaps... he can.

"If you want to understand... I’ll show you. But I’ll need that.” He reaches for the instrument.

“I think I’ll carry it,” Jack insists, backing away from the other’s hand.

Sammy frowns, but doesn't push the issue. “Very well. Follow me, my sheep.”

Thankfully, the recording studio is still empty, everyone having given up on getting anything done that day. Jack watches his movements silently, a look of worry on his face. When the time comes he slowly hands the violin to Sammy, who draws a few long notes from it.

“Willow Weep for Me?’ the other man inquires, recognizing the beginning notes of the piece. Sammy smiles. “Of course. They let me pick which one... it was a hard decision, but I think this was a good choice. Such a charming song.”

He goes into the sanctuary first, kneeling for a quick prayer, apologizing for responding to the Gods’ call so late. He turns, beckoning from the doorway. “It’s quite quiet in here. I’m sure you’ll like it. You can hear... things. Things that you can’t hear normally.”

Jack enters cautiously, looking around. The room doesn’t look like much - it had once been a bathroom, but it had since been abandoned when an ink valve had been installed close to where the toilet stood. Sammy remembers protesting how they would have to travel to a completely different floor just to use the bathroom back then, but now he couldn’t be more grateful.

“Sammy...”

This was not the response Sammy had been hoping for. He knew he shouldn’t bring non-believers into this place, but he _wanted,_ he _needed_ his old friend to understand. But instead of being properly awestruck and humbled, the other man seemed.... scared. Not only of the room, but of him. “What... is this?”

“I asked for a quiet place, and the Gods provided one. You can understand that, can’t you?”

Jack backs away, looking over his shoulder towards the entrance. “Uh... of course I can, Sammy. Listen, those songs are due tomorrow, so I really should-”

Sammy grabs his arm. “They’ll help you too, if you’re only willing to sacrifice something. They can give you your own sanctuary, away from those disgusting sewers. They can heal any injuries. Their abilities exceed beyond life and death. Please, for your own sake, _believe._ ”

Jack yanks his arm out of his grasp with a surprising amount of force. He looks like he’s about to say something, but instead turns and bolts out of the room.

Sammy doesn’t leave.

 

* * *

 

Sammy reforms within the dark sewers, taking a second to regain his bearings. There's the usual generators, the box suspended in mid-air... and Jack, slouched over by the entrance way. He slowly walks towards the Searcher, hand moving towards the syringe in his pocket, and the thing obediently stays still.

_“Sammy...?”_   The prophet stops in surprise. The word is so low and drawn out it almost sounds like another one of the creature’s moans, but he knows better than that. It twists around bonelessly, shuddering. _“Sick... hurts...”_

“I know, my sheep,” Sammy mutters, and he moves his hand away from the syringe. It won’t be used today.

Jack slouches over more, letting out another soft moan. _“Loud...”_

Sammy could hear it as well - the voices from the puddles, all yelling, crying, _screaming_. It was only louder down here, in the echoey silence of the sewers.

“I know,” he repeats. He runs a hand down the Searcher’s back, being careful to make sure his hand doesn’t merge straight into the creature’s body. “I know.”

They sit there for a while, listening to the silence and the screams.

“One moment,” Sammy finally says. He turns and begins making his way back down the ink-filled passageway, stopping at Jack’s old desk. Aside from a few sheets of music that had been displaced and lost in the ink, the little enclave was exactly how it looked back when the studio was still open. It almost seemed as if the lyricist could walk down the hallway at any moment and sit down in his chair to begin writing the next song.

But of course, he wouldn’t.

The music director picks up the fiddle on the ground, being careful not to disturb anything else. Sammy works his way back down the corridor to find Jack still slouched over in the same spot, moaning softly. He steps up onto one of the nearby ledges.

The fiddle was Jack’s instrument - Sammy had a general knowledge of how to play it, just like many instruments, but he was much more comfortable with things that could be picked at rather than played with a bow. And yet, in a way it’s perfect - he does not need five fingers to move the bow, and said fingers would not splatter and fall apart like they would plucking at individual strings.

He takes a few moments to practice and tune the instrument. As he does so, the Searcher writhes back into the ink and spawns only a foot away, apparently drawn in by the sounds the fiddle is making.

“Listen closely, my sheep. The music... helps.” He begins to play a familiar tune, and as he does so he begins to sing - not the version of the song dedicated to their lord that he had created, but the original lyrics Jack had penned all those years ago.

“Sheep sheep sheep, lay down to rest...”

The Searcher makes a few low noises. They almost like his usual moaning, but Sammy can pick up out the discordant attempts to follow the notes he’s singing, and he feels a sudden pang of pity. Jack used to have such a good ear for pitch.

Sammy finishes the first song and cycles through a few more, allowing the notes to drown out the overwhelming noise from the puddles. He finishes with a flourish. Turning, he finds that Jack had managed to crawl halfway onto the ledge at some point, resting his head and arms on the cold cement. Sammy sits next to him. He carefully sets down the instrument, then stares out into the ink-filled sewer, not turning towards him as he speaks.

“I pray for you every day. Did you know that, my sheep? I pray for you, and myself, and everyone else trapped here. It is only a matter of time before he hears us.” He looks back towards the motionless Searcher.

“We’re all sinners down here. You, myself, and every other thing that lives within this ink. We are made from human beings, we _are_ human beings, and therefore we cannot hope to be as perfect as our lord without his grace. Still, I remain confident that he will forgive us.” He sets a hand on the Searcher's deformed back.

“But if you had believed, if you had accepted him back then... I’m sure he would have blessed you, like he blessed all of us.’ He looks towards his legs, fully formed. “Such a shame. I can only imagine what lovely hymns you would have written in his glory.”

The Searcher writhes under his hand and moans, disappearing back into the ink.

Such a shame, indeed.

 

* * *

 

“Jack.”

The lyricist turns to him, tensing up.

“Joey wants to see us in his office.”

He can practically see the relief on the other’s face in response to him saying something so normal. “Probably just calling us down to yell at someone.”

“Probably.” The statement is meant to be a joke, but it comes out flat.

He doesn’t want to do this.

It would be quite an honor for Jack to be the first - even a non-believer like him might be accepted if they had chosen him out of all the others. And he couldn’t say it was a surprise. Jack was kind, wise, funny. Sammy couldn’t think of anyone else who would be a better sacrifice, and he knows more than anyone that the Gods’ will cannot be changed.

He wants to tell him to run.

But he won’t.

The lyricist doesn’t pick up that anything is wrong, despite that fact that Sammy is positive it’s written all over his face. He walks with him up the stairs and occasionally quips something, probably just grateful that his friend is acting normal again for once.

Jack starts to head to Joey’s office.

“He said he wants to meet us in the Ink Machine room.”

The other man turns towards him, confused. “You said earlier that he wanted to see us in his office. Which is it?”

Did he? “I must have misspoken. He wants us in the Ink Machine room.”

“Why would he want us in-”

“I don’t know, okay? Stop asking so many questions,” he snaps. The situation is already making him feel slightly ill, and the other man’s suspicious aren’t helping to ease his anxiety. What point was there, for a sheep to try to avoid the slaughter?

Jack glances in the direction of Joey’s office one more time, then slowly returns to Sammy’s side as they continue to walk. They stop in front of the door to the room where the machine was kept.

Sammy takes a deep breath, steeling himself, before opening the door to the room.

The Ink Machine itself sits on the floor, its absolutely massive size dwarfing everything else in the room. A thin stream of ink drips from its nozzle and onto the floorboards, creating an ever-increasing puddle. Gathered around it are a few dozen workers from various departments in the studio.

Some of them have rope. A few others have knives.

Jack turns back to the door, but several people have already moved in front of it, blocking his escape.

“Jack.” Sammy can’t bring himself to look at his old friend as he joins the group of his fellow believers.

“I’m so sorry.”

 

* * *

 

Sammy waits until the newcomer leaves to inspect the area. It had been a quick death - the Searcher wouldn’t have even realized what was happening, let alone felt any pain.

Jack’s hat floats calmly on the surface of the ink, somehow having escaped being crushed. Ink has splattered everywhere, coating the underside of the box and leaving masses of it clinging to the sides. Sammy kneels and starts collecting as much of the thick substance as he can, shuddering as he allows it to be directly absorbed into his body.

After he’s done he bows his head for a moment, thanking his lord and praying for the sheep’s safe return. Not that he had much doubt that he would - Jack would reform as soon as the Machine was docked, just like he had dozens of times before.

And yet something feels... wrong.

Perhaps it’s how the newcomer had simply taken the valve but not any of the ink their lord had graciously supplied. Perhaps it was the lack of proper prayer given.

Or perhaps he simply didn’t like non-believers killing his fellow sheep.

He begins to slowly make his way back to the music department - then stops, staring over at Jack’s desk.

He had always kept the area the same for these last thirty years, the dust the only indication that time had passed since the sacrifice. The newcomer, unaware of this, had played the tape sitting on Jack’s desk, leaving it positioned differently than it was originally. Sammy could faintly hear the sound of the tape running when the stranger had turned it on earlier, but he had been too far away to make it out clearly.

Sammy picks up it carefully, making sure not to get ink stains on it, and presses the rewind button. The tape moves backward with a thin whirring noise, then stops as the button pops back into place.

And then, without thinking, he hits play.

_“I love the quiet, and that's hard to come by these busy times...”  
_

It’s the first time Sammy’s clearly heard his voice in 30 years. Over time, he had gradually forgotten what he once sounded like, then what he looked like, and then he started to forgot who he was completely. He was no longer a person - he was an item, something created by their lord as a gift to his believers. But the tape brings back a fresh rush of long-lost memories of his old friend. If he listens long enough, he’ll have to face the truth.

He clicks off the tape before it’s over, rewinds it, and carefully sets it back where it was. He doesn’t want to hear it anymore.

Because if he doesn’t listen, he can keep believing.


End file.
